


Qupid and Psych

by Anyawen



Series: Mythology tales [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest 2020, Don't copy to another site, Doubt, Gen, James Gets In His Own Way, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, and tries to fix it, team00, the mystery of Q's name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Bond's doubt sabotages the thing growing between him and his Quartermaster. He endeavors to fix it.
Relationships: Pre-00Q - Relationship
Series: Mythology tales [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814737
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	Qupid and Psych

Bond was warned about the new Quartermaster. He was told the man was hardly human, appearing to live on nothing more than tea and code, and fierce as a dragon. He was told that the Quartermaster harassed the world with ingenuity, shrewdness, and tenacity, and was respected —and even feared— by even double-oh agents and the wider world of espionage.

He was rather underwhelmed, therefore, when he met the man at the National Gallery. Certainly, he had confidence and snark in spades, but there was hardly anything _threatening_ about him.

Rather pretty, though.

Bond went to Shanghai, and then to Macau, and then to Silva’s island. He was captured, and then captured Silva in turn. If he thought he was returning triumphant, the strip of hide Q tore off of him with a mere _look_ at the report of his lost palm-coded Walther quickly disabused him of that notion. 

He tried, in later missions - he really did. Not so much because he feared the tongue-lashing that would follow the loss or destruction of the equipment Q had provided him, but because of the tiny frown of disappointment that followed the rant.

He liked provoking the Quartermaster, but he hated displeasing him.

Bond was gratified to note that the Quartermaster appeared to notice him outside of the damage to his gear. He had a reputation, of course, and some of it was actually true. The Quartermaster seemed to know which bits to believe, and he appeared to like them. He did not hesitate to shred Bond over destroyed cars or lost earwigs, but outside of missions they enjoyed a friendly association that more than occasionally bordered on flirtatious.

Things were moving in the direction of … more ... when a pair of comments put Bond into a tailspin.

“You trust him? You don’t even know his name.”

“The last time you fell for someone they betrayed you.”

He’d never asked the Quartermaster for his name. He’d understood the need to keep the man anonymous in his position.

But they weren’t only interacting professionally anymore, were they?

Bond had fallen for the Quartermaster. That was clear in the tangle of grief, anger, and devastation he felt as he pondered whether not knowing the man’s name was in any way a betrayal. Or if his anonymity might be any sort of indication that he planned on betrayal, not just of Bond, but of everything Bond held dear.

He gave in to the doubt, telling himself it was to protect the country by making sure the Quartermaster posed no threat to security. His intuition let him deduce passwords, and his fumbling hacking skills were good enough to gain him access to a workstation, and through it, to HR’s database.

He wasn’t good enough to go unnoticed.

He didn’t find the name he sought, and he found that the Quartermaster had all but disappeared. The last he heard from the man was a brief note—

‘You only needed to ask.  
—Caron’

Bond scoured MI6, and although he knew the Quartermaster was present and performing his duties, he never encountered the man. For a day or two it might have just been coincidence, but it went on for weeks. He was kitted out for missions by distantly polite boffins. The voice in his ear always had the right information but was never the Quartermaster’s warm tenor. Other distant, polite, disappointed boffins accepted those bits of tech he returned when each mission was done. He saw no sign of the Quartermaster.

Bond knew he’d made a mistake. He didn’t trust anyone, as a rule, but he had trusted the Quartermaster, professionally and personally, and he’d been right to do so. Then he’d allowed comments from … well meaning friends? agents jealous of his growing closeness with the Quartermaster? … to make him wonder. To make him doubt. And in seeking to steal classified information from a target rather than asking a question of a more-than-friend, he’d clearly hurt the Quartermaster, and damaged what they’d been building between them.

He didn’t know if it could be repaired. If he could never approach to offer an apology or make amends, then certainly the chances were low. He was determined to try. To find the Quartermaster, apologise, and ask for a chance to redeem himself. He had no right to the future he’d thrown away, but he wanted it, and would work for the chance to atone and hope that perhaps it could be reclaimed.

He took to lingering in Q-branch when he wasn’t on a mission. He stayed out of the way, and beyond sending him occasional curious glances —especially now, when he appeared with one hand wrapped in burn dressings— the boffins ignored him as he drifted through the bullpen, or into the labs, or the garage.

On this visit he noticed that some of the bins of nuts and bolts and other fasteners had gotten jumbled. He sat, quietly monitoring the room, one-handedly picking through the bits to sort them appropriately. The task took him hours, and during that time he saw nothing of the Quartermaster.

He looked up in surprise as a mug of tea was placed near his elbow. R was staring down at him, arms folded across her chest. She thanked him for his efforts, and told him he was an idiot. He couldn’t disagree. He’d allowed curiosity and doubt to ruin the best thing he’d ever had. She said yes, that, too, then gestured at his injured hand.

He had been making a determined effort to bring his gear back, even the bits that were broken, remembering how the Quartermaster had said that there was information they could glean from the remains. On his last mission, his gun had been knocked from his hand - he hadn’t worried that it would be used against him because of the Quartermaster’s palm-print recognition system, so he’d continued to grapple bare-handed with his opponent as the building burned around them. When he’d emerged victorious and eager to escape the blaze, however, it was to discover his Walther wreathed in flames.

He’d kicked it free of the fire and scooped it up as he charged out of the building as it smoked and groaned around him. The gun had only been in the fire for a couple of minutes, but it was still hot enough to burn. He’d only held on to it long enough to get safely out of the building and a few streets away, before dropping it and stripping off his jacket to wrap it so he could carry it safely. The time he’d held it, though, had been long enough to leave second degree blisters on his fingers, and milder burns across his palm.

R told him that she appreciated his efforts to return his gear, but that the Quartermaster would never approve of damaging himself to retrieve the tech. Bond said that if bringing his kit back complete had gained him audience with the Quartermaster, from whose presence he’d been banished, he’d consider the injury worth it. She tells him again that he’s an idiot, and she wishes she could say that his efforts - both with the return of his gear, and with his help sorting the mixed bits and bobs - would gain the Quartermaster’s favour, or even just his attention, but she can’t. Not because they shouldn’t, but because she just doesn’t know. She is not in a position to influence him to see Bond, let alone forgive him, so she can only suggest that he seek out someone who may be able to do so.

Bond sits with that advice for a while, drinking the tea R had brought him.

There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do, he realizes, for the chance to apologize and make things right. And so he stands and leaves Q-branch with a brief nod to R, and goes upstairs to give himself over to judgement.

M had known what he’d done, and had seen the Quartermaster’s response. On one hand, she approved of it —fraternizing was against the rules, and relationships in general often led to exploitable weaknesses that put her people, her organization, and her country at risk. 

On the other hand, until he’d let his doubt and curiosity get the better of him, Bond had been more stable, and more efficient than he’d been in ages. 

He’d been happier, too. Happier than she’d ever seen him.

Which was why she was so bloody furious with him now.

Bond stood in her office and clearly explained what he’d done. He didn’t know what assistance she could offer, if she would offer any at all, but he was prepared to throw himself on her mercy to gain an audience with the Quartermaster. He refused to fidget after he finished speaking and she sat silently glaring at him.

When she spoke, she made him no promises. She set him tasks. Some were already rightfully his to do, but he’d shirked them for ages as a matter of course. No longer. He sat to fill out the backlog of paperwork without complaint.

It took … ages.

He then submitted himself to medical for a full workup, and ran all of his re-qualification tests again. Including psych, who nearly flagged him for his uncharacteristic cooperation.

He was tasked with visiting schools to meet with and evaluate promising young candidates for the service.

He was sent on milk runs. Basic bodyguard missions —nothing more than glorified babysitting, really. He wasn’t happy about it, and was less happy with the teasing of his fellow agents, but he understood it was penance, and he was willing to pay it.

Naturally, it was one of those boring babysitting missions when things went tits-up.

He was assigned to escort an asset to a meeting in Istanbul, because of course it was Istanbul. The meeting went well and concluded early, and the asset decided to use their unexpected free time to visit a museum. Bond wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but was surprised and intrigued by the museum selected. The asset shared his love of classic cars.

As did, apparently, a visiting American Supernatural fan who attempted to steal the collection’s 1967 Chevy Impala during their visit. The theft was unplanned, utterly chaotic, and ultimately unsuccessful. 

Bond had kept the asset safe, pushing them out of the way of the vehicle as it raced across the museum’s marble floor, but he’d been clipped as the car careened by. It’d been a glancing blow, leaving him battered and bruised, and unfit to escort the asset back to London until the symptoms of his concussion passed.

He arranged for an agent from an MI6 station in Athens to get the asset home and returned to his hotel, took his pain meds, and collapsed into slumber.

When he woke, the Quartermaster was sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room, watching him.

The Quartermaster was still angry, still hurt, but was unwilling to let his anger keep him from Bond any longer. Life was short and unpredictable, and if a milk run mission could leave Bond injured … he would not chance letting the agent go out on anything more dangerous without having talked with him. Without having told him …

“I shouldn’t have done what I did. I entertained a moment of doubt, and rather than coming to you to discuss my worry, I invaded your privacy. There aren’t words to say how sorry I am,” Bond interrupted, ignoring his aches as he pushed himself to sit up against the headboard. “I don’t know if I can make it up to you, but, if you’ll let me, I’d like the chance to try.”

“That’s why I’m here,” the Quartermaster replied, frowning at the bruises stretching up Bond’s left side. “To tell you that I’d like to give you that chance. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed us. What we were building was … special. Or, I thought it was.”

“It was for me, as well. Is. It is —you are— special."

The Quartermaster considered him, a hint of a smile just quirking his lips.

"I think I must be. You went to psych for me.”

“I’d do it again,” Bond said earnestly, then grimaced. “Though, I’d rather not.”

The Quartermaster snorted.

“How are you feeling?” he asked Bond.

“Like I’ve been hit by a car. Bloody Americans,” Bond groused, pushing the covers back and cautiously swinging his legs off the bed. “He was trying to take that car for a joyride because of some TV programme. Idiot. D’you know they have a 1970 Aston Martin DBS there?”

“Do they?” the Quartermaster said, crossing the room to stand next to Bond as he pushed himself to his feet and stood in just his pants and his bruise-painted skin, wincing and trying not to wobble.

“Perhaps you’d like to go see it? With me?” Bond asked, taking a few halting steps toward the loo.

“I would,” the Quartermaster replied, slipping under Bond’s left arm and sliding an arm around the agent’s waist and helping him limp slowly across the room. “Sadly, I don’t think that’s on today’s agenda. Today is for pain meds and rest. We’ll see how you’re feeling tomorrow.”

“You’re staying?”

“Thought I might.”

“Thank you, Quartermaster,” Bond said, meaning it for the assistance, and the care, and, most of all, for the chance to make things right.

“You can use it, you know. My name.”

"It’s classified for a reason.”

“I do have to remain anonymous professionally, it’s true,” the Quartermaster agreed, pausing at the threshold to the bathroom and letting Bond limp in alone. “But I gave it to you for personal reasons.”

“I haven’t earned it,” Bond said, turning to face the Quartermaster, one hand gripping the door frame for stability as he took weight off his left leg.

“Perhaps not yet, but I believe you intend to try.”

“I do. Until then …”

“Call me Q.”

“Q,” Bond replied, smiling. “All right.”

He paused for a moment.

"It means love, doesn't it? Your name?"

"It does."

“Good.”

“Is it?”

“I think so. I hope that should I earn the right to use it, you’ll hear what I’m saying every time I speak your name.”

“Keep saying things like that —and doing your bloody paperwork— and we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“As you say, Q.”

**Author's Note:**

> There is a classic car museum in Istanbul, and they do have a 1970 Aston Martin DBS. I fudged a little on the Impala, though. The one in their collection is from a slightly different year ...


End file.
